


Happy Accidents

by scoradh



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atobe has a secret.</p><p>Written in April 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: moshes and gin_and_ironic (livejournal)

Atobe's biggest secret was that he was a bit of a prude.  
  
He didn't like the way Oshitari and Gakuto giggled about the girls they'd made out with. He didn't like the way Ohtori's hand furtively made its way to Shishido's knee whenever they were sitting beside each other. He didn't like the way Jiroh slept, with his legs splayed out and his shirt riding up over his hips.  
  
So he shushed Oshitari and Gakuto, glared at Ohtori until he blushed and started fiddling with his shoelaces -- using both hands -- and instructed Kabaji to wake Jiroh. If the last was not an option -- and it rarely was, for dead people slept less deeply than Jiroh -- Kabaji rolled Jiroh into a more modest position.  
  
When they got to high school, things only got worse. Instead of talking about making out with girls, Oshitari and Gakuto decided to cut out the middle woman. They soon came to regard the clubroom as their personal kissing headquarters.   
  
Ohtori graduated from touching Shishido's knees to slipping his thigh between them. Ohtori really was rather pervy, Atobe decided, after he'd accidentally witnessed a certain encounter that left him shaken. Putting his ... tongue ... _there_ ... Then again, Shishido hadn't seemed to be complaining. In fact, his garbled moans sounded a lot more like "Fuck, yes, Choutarou," and "Harder."  
  
Jiroh didn't change very much. Oh, the loose folds of his shirt now revealed a spectacular set of abs, and his parted legs had deeper grooves and hollows between the muscles, but Atobe could forgive Jiroh's mutation into a Greek god so long as he wasn't poisoning Atobe's brain with dirty images.  
  
Unfortunately, Jiroh soon started a new habit. He decided that Atobe was the next best thing to a portable pillow. If his nose wasn't buried in Atobe's neck and his hair tickling Atobe's cheek, his face was in Atobe's lap, which was considerably worse. Jiroh _nuzzled._  
  
"I think he likes you," observed Oshitari, as he watched Atobe fruitlessly attempt to pry Jiroh from his side. Jiroh merely made a kittenish noise and snuggled under Atobe's arm.   
  
"Of course he likes me." Atobe gave up and tried to turn the page of his book one-handed. It was extremely difficult. "I'm me."  
  
"No, I think he likes you likes you," persisted Oshitari.   
  
Atobe wasn't in the mood for Oshitari's Kansai word-games. "If you're not going to make yourself useful and turn into a human bookmark, please go away."  
  
Oshitari obeyed, but only after sending Atobe what he clearly thought was a speaking look. In reality he only made it as far as a mumbling glance.  
  
A few weeks later, Ohtori invited the remnants of the middle school tennis team to his house for a sleepover. His parents had gone to America on a business trip and they trusted Ohtori so much they'd allowed him to have a 'little party.' Atobe doubted they'd feel the same way if they'd seen the pictures from the time Ohtori and Shishido went on a double date with Oshitari and Mukahi. They might have called it karaoke. Atobe preferred the term orgy.  
  
Atobe immediately grasped the foolishness of accepting the invitation upon entering Ohtori's bedroom. Hiyoshi had abandoned tennis for kendo after starting high school. Kabaji soon followed in his footsteps, having been headhunted by the wrestling team. Taki was now playing in a band and had taken to wearing more leather and makeup than a cross-dressing Hell's Angel.  
  
That left six of them. Two couples, Jiroh -- and Atobe.   
  
At first the party was an innocuous affair. Hosting it far from Oshitari's four-shelf collection of romance films proved an inspired move, for it meant that they were spared the sight of the tensai's eyes welling with tears at every hackneyed onscreen declaration of love. It also halted the knock-on effect on Mukahi, who seemed to feel inadequate and tended to compensate for it either by pulling Oshitari into a steamy lip lock or punching his lights out.  
  
Then Shishido suggested that they play Truth or Dare.  
  
Atobe glared at him with an 'Et tu, Brute?' expression, which Shishido feigned not to notice. At the same moment Atobe discovered that Jiroh's half-slumbering squirming had brought him from the far side of the room and Ohtori's beanbag to right beside Atobe. Fearing that Jiroh would seek his lap as a replacement, Atobe brought his knees to his chest and clasped his arms around them. There. Let Jiroh try to sleep on _that._  
  
Atobe had a naturally suspicious mind. Truth or Dare was a wasted exercise on everyone else in the room. Oshitari and Mukahi were generally quite vocal about what they'd got up to, and hearing about their exploits in greater detail was merely more of the same. While Ohtori and Shishido were -- thankfully -- far more reticent, Atobe was sure that they'd spoken of their experiences with the other two, to share tips or get advice or even just to lord it over them (this was Hyotei, after all). Jiroh's most embarrassing Truth was probably falling asleep in the girls' locker room.   
  
That left Atobe.   
  
He began to sweat as the questions travelled the room. Hearing Ohtori frankly describe the first time he'd deep-throated or Mukahi trying to remember the weirdest sexual position he'd ever attempted made it all the more clear that Atobe was sorely lacking in this department.  
  
It wasn't that Atobe hadn't had offers. It was just that the thought of doing it with anyone made him slightly uncomfortable. And, well, a little bit frightened. It was different for the others; they were all best friends before they'd started fooling around. They had bonds of trust. Atobe didn't even _have_ a best friend. He had servants, and he had subordinates, and he had his tennis team. That was it.  
  
So it was that when Oshitari turned to him with a smile as gentle as a breeze cut by a sword, and asked, "Truth or dare?" Atobe replied, "Dare."  
  
Oshitari's eyes widened behind his Gucci glasses. "Dare? Really?"  
  
"I said so, didn't I?" Atobe pushed extra helpings of arrogance into his tone to hide the fact that his voice was shaky. Beside him, Jiroh opened his eyes and rubbed at his cheek. It was covered in pink carpet marks.  
  
"All right." Oshitari's gaze flickered over to Jiroh, who tensed. Atobe was too busy maintaining a mask of pure indifference to analyse the unspoken conversation between Oshitari and Jiroh. "I dare you ... I dare you to ..."  
  
"Get on with it," snapped Atobe. He'd been there when Oshitari admitted to owning bondage gear, after all. He didn't want to give Oshitari too much time to come up with a really extravagant dare.  
  
"Fine. I dare you to stand on the garden wall and drop your pants."  
  
"Oh." Atobe sat back. He hadn't expected something quite so juvenile from the boy who had the highest IQ in the school.  
  
"Do you forfeit?" Oshitari's eyes gleamed, and Atobe scented a trap. "If you do --"  
  
"I don't forfeit." Atobe rose to his feet, adjusting his Italian silk pyjamas in a dignity-at-all-times way. "Front or back garden?"  
  
"Front, of course." Oshitari took Mukahi's hand and pulled him up. "C'mon, guys. We have to watch to make sure he doesn't chicken out."  
  
"I won't chicken out." Atobe was surprised frost didn't form in the air, his words were so cold. With a sleepy yawn, Jiroh stumbled upright. Atobe put out an arm to stop him falling right back over and was rewarded with a smile, another yawn and a faceful of popcorn breath.  
  
"Uh ... my window overlooks the garden," said Ohtori. He'd been sitting with his hand on Shishido's knee as always, but Atobe had occasion to note that it had gradually snuck upwards. "We'll watch from here."  
  
"As you wish," sniffed Atobe, hoping he conveyed that he really meant 'I'm _sure_ you will.'  
  
He lead the way down the stairs and out into Ohtori's front garden. It was a profusion of flowers dappled in moonlight. At any other time Atobe would have appreciated the beauty of the scene, but right now all he cared about was checking to see that the midnight street was quiet and deserted. He was in luck; there wasn't even a single car crawling down the road.  
  
"Go on, then," came Oshitari's amused voice from behind him.   
  
Atobe smothered a sigh and leapt lightly on to the wall. It was about waist-height and just thick enough to balance on. Quickly checking once more for drunken salarymen and night crawlers, Atobe pulled free the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms and let them fall to his ankles. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and stared stonily into the night for a good three minutes, before bending over to yank them back up. It was quite hard to pull it off and remain both graceful and balanced, but he wasn't Atobe Keigo for nothing.  
  
"There. Satisfied?" he threw at Oshitari. Mukahi was gaping at him in a most undignified manner. Even Jiroh seemed fully awake for once, wearing the look he usually reserved for jelly doughnuts or Marui Bunta.  
  
"That's ... yes." Oshitari slung his arm around Mukahi and turned him around. "Back to the game. It's your turn to ask a question, Atobe."  
  
"Oh, joy," muttered Atobe under his breath.  
  
They returned to find Ohtori and Shishido in a compromising position. Atobe averted his eyes and wondered how they'd managed to lose that much clothing in so short a space of time. "Ohtori, I'm going to fetch a glass of water, if you don't mind," he said. Without waiting to hear Ohtori's reply -- or even for him to detach himself from Shishido -- Atobe went back down the stairs.  
  
It wasn't that he disapproved of Shishido and Ohtori's relationship, although heaven knew there were many who would. The fact that they flaunted it was more repugnant to most than the fact that they were having it in the first place. Of course, Shishido and Ohtori knew that.  
  
Atobe, on the other hand, had seen Ohtori's face light up when Shishido came into the room. He'd heard the way the rough edges of Shishido's voice softened when he said the word 'Choutarou.' There was no denying that they made each other happy -- or at least, happier than they would have been otherwise. Atobe contrasted this state of affairs with that of his parents' marriage and could see where one vastly outstripped the other. His mother and father arranged their schedules weeks in advance to avoid being in the same room together. How Atobe had ever come about was a mystery to all concerned, but he presumed it was the result of strenuous forward planning.  
  
Even what Oshitari and Mukahi had was preferable to that. They called it a friendship with extra benefits. If Mukahi's truths were anything to go by, these ranged from blowjobs to sharing homework and covering for each other in the face of parental wrath.   
  
After a few false starts, Atobe found the kitchen, which was roughly the size of his own dressing room. He was opening door after cupboard door in search of a glass, a fridge or a water filter when he heard the pad of feet. A second later, a hand pressed a glass into Atobe's palm.  
  
"Did Oshitari send you down here?" asked Atobe. Jiroh's eyelashes were fluttering as he attempted to keep his eyes open, and Atobe saw that they were very thick and sooty. If his genetics were more widely disseminated, mascara would never have been invented.  
  
"No." Jiroh smiled. "I figured you might need a bit of help. Did you want water or juice?"  
  
"Water," replied Atobe and remembered to add, "Please."  
  
Unerringly, Jiroh opened another door and reached into the blinding white light to fetch a jug. Atobe held out his glass as Jiroh filled it. A little water splashed on to Atobe's wrists. If Jiroh had been a maid he'd be fired in a day, but Atobe knew better than to mention it.  
  
"How did you know where the fridge was?" he asked instead.  
  
"My kitchen at home has the same layout," explained Jiroh. It struck Atobe that he'd never once visited Jiroh's house in five years of knowing him, and felt vaguely guilty. To allay the unpleasant emotion, he put the glass to his lips and drank. The water was nice and cold, although Atobe doubted it had been boiled, filtered and purified to his exacting standards. Still, he had purging tablets at home; if necessary he could take one in the morning.  
  
Jiroh slumped against the counter beside Atobe, head tilting so that curls shivered against Atobe's shoulder. When he spoke his voice was quiet, and Atobe presumed that he was yet again on the point of a catnap. "You have nice legs, Atobe."  
  
Belatedly, Atobe noticed that the glass was smudgy. "Thank you," he said distractedly. Of course he had nice legs; he went to great pains to see that everything about his body was in peak condition. Besides, people told him things like that all the time. He was used to replying on autopilot.  
  
"There you are, Atobe." Oshitari materialised at the door. "We've been waiting for ages. You get to ask Jiroh a Truth or Dare."  
  
"Me?" Jiroh perked up. "Oh, goody!" He bounded from the room. More sedately Atobe followed, having first deposited the glass in a sink.   
  
Upstairs, Shishido and Ohtori had settled their clothing and were sitting a whole five inches apart. Atobe didn't like to point out that they appeared to have swapped shirts. Oshitari took his place beside Mukahi, his hand finding Mukahi's fingers and curling his palm around them. Mukahi gave him a brief and very un-Mukahi-like smile before altering his expression to something more suitably evil.  
  
Jiroh lugged over the beanbag so that he could sprawl across it and be beside Atobe at the same time. His hair was mussed up with static and he looked bright and oddly sentient.  
  
Atobe sank into an Indian squat from a standing position. "Very well, Jiroh. Truth or dare?"  
  
"Um ..." Jiroh rolled on to his back and kicked up his legs like a little kid. "Truth, Atobe!"  
  
"Aa." Atobe felt a little stumped. Not only did he not have enough experience to answer a truth, he didn't have enough to ask one either. "All right, Jiroh -- how many girls have you kissed?"  
  
"Girls?" Atobe couldn't quite tell from upside down, but it rather looked like Jiroh was wrinkling his nose. "None!"  
  
"Oh, okay." Atobe shrugged. "I guess it's your turn, then."  
  
For some reason, Atobe caught Oshitari's eye. The tensai crooked his eyebrows. Atobe felt a sharp twist in his stomach, as if it knew what Oshitari was implying even if his head didn't.  
  
Truth or Dare ended soon after when Ohtori mentioned that he knew where his father kept a private stash of sake. Despite that, the game stayed on Atobe's mind for some time after.  
  
__  
  
  
Atobe didn't forget that he'd been inconsiderate in not visiting Jiroh. He engineered it so Jiroh had reason to ask him over on the pretext of doing homework.   
  
Atobe didn't need study groups. He could afford to hire a fleet of private tutors any time he felt he was getting behind on schoolwork. Still, it paid to keep things normal and flaunting his wealth never got him very far with the tennis team. They still rode the dozen blocks in Atobe's limo, because Atobe saw no reason not to and Jiroh loved the mini-fridge.   
  
Jiroh offered to make him a snack when they arrived. Atobe readily assented and knelt at the kitchen table. The room was fascinating by dint of its very smallness. Atobe rarely had reason to visit his own kitchens, but he knew that they were about the size of Jiroh's house. How anyone ever got anything done in such a tiny space escaped him, but Jiroh seemed to be managing fine.  
  
Afterwards, they went to Jiroh's bedroom. Jiroh was keen to show it off, and when he opened the door Atobe could see why. Although nothing on the scale of Atobe's suite, it was far more welcoming and very Jiroh. There was a shelf of plushies arranged in the colours of the rainbow. The ceiling was a deep blue and someone had gone to a lot of trouble to paint swirling galaxies and sprays of stars across it. The lampshade was a huge tennis ball. His bed was small but covered in a sky-blue velvet comforter that made Atobe want to wrap himself in it and snuggle down. And he wasn't a boy much given to snuggling. His mother had told his nurse to take away his teddies and security blanket the day he turned five. He gathered that they had all been burned.  
  
"Where do you do your homework?" asked Atobe, not spotting a desk.  
  
"Oh, on the bed." Jiroh plopped down and patted the space beside him. "It's comfy."  
  
Atobe had to agree. Jiroh fetched a notebook and wriggled around until he was on his stomach. Feeling a little foolish, Atobe followed suit. Their shoulders bumped and Jiroh smiled around the biro in his mouth and before Atobe knew it, Jiroh was asleep again, curled up like a fossil.   
  
The velvet comforter was _very_ soft. Atobe ran his hand through it, delighting in the texture. He shifted a little so that his cheek was pressed against it. As his eyes drifted closed, he reflected that it was a good thing they hadn't really had any homework to do.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe always turned his back on the rest of the room when he changed for tennis. He knew that he was a physically perfect specimen, but he still didn't like it when people looked at him for too long. Equally he didn't want to chance getting glimpses of his teammates when they were naked. Shishido and Oshitari were both prone to wandering around in the buff, complaining loudly about lost socks or teasing their boyfriends.   
  
Jiroh's locker was near to Atobe's, which probably explained why he always fell asleep on the bench where Atobe was changing.  
  
On his way out, Atobe was privy to the end of a conversation between Jiroh and Oshitari. His ears perked up, because these two rarely had anything to say to each other. (Other than: "Wake up, Jiroh! We have a match, damn you!")   
  
"-- tried everything you said, Oshitari," Jiroh was saying. He sounded disconsolate. "I don't seem to be getting any response at all."  
  
"Don't worry too much," replied Oshitari. "Seduction takes time -- particularly when the subject is as tough as yours."  
  
Atobe couldn't restrain himself. "Who are you seducing, Jiroh?"   
  
Jiroh's eyes widened and he went bright pink. Oshitari looked similarly discomfited, but he retained enough composure to say smoothly, "What are you talking about, Atobe? Have you been eavesdropping?"  
  
"Hardly. This is a public changing room," Atobe pointed out. "Whoever you are seducing, Jiroh, please make sure it doesn't interfere with your tennis. Regionals are nearly upon us and I won't have you flaking out over some girl."  
  
"I won't," said Jiroh. He sounded a little squeaky.   
  
"I can vouch for that," sighed Oshitari, pushing up his glasses with one manicured finger.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe was still trying to figure out the identity of Jiroh's crush the next day. He hadn't seen Jiroh display noteworthy partiality towards any girl of his acquaintance, but then again Jiroh wasn't in most of Atobe's classes. He was wondering if it would be unwise to press Oshitari for more information when he entered the changing room, and saw the very object of his ruminations sitting on a bench kissing Mukahi.  
  
Atobe felt himself go very still. Jiroh had his hands on Mukahi's shoulders, and Mukahi's arms were wrapped around Jiroh's small waist. They were kissing slowly, with tongues dipping and swirling. Over the soft wet noises, Atobe could hear Jiroh making little hums of contentment. Jiroh's eyelashes were dark smudges against his flushed cheeks. He shifted a little to deepen the kiss.  
  
Atobe turned on his heel and left, totally failing to notice that Oshitari was leaning against a nearby locker with a stopwatch and notebook.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe sat huddled in an abandoned classroom. The floor was dusty and he didn't even care. His mind was whirling.   
  
He knew he was a prude because he felt uncomfortable when Oshitari was making out with Mukahi, and when Ohtori very obviously had his hands down Shishido's pants, and when Jiroh jumped for the ball and displayed his hard, cream-coloured belly. Yet the life-sized nudes in his father's study didn't bother him at all. The cleavages and short skirts of his fan club left him unmoved. What then did this mean for Atobe's motivations?  
  
Was he uncomfortable because, secretly, he liked the idea of kissing other boys, of touching other boys, of ... Jiroh?  
  
The image of Jiroh's mouth moving on Mukahi's sprang unbidden to Atobe's mind, and he stifled a groan. His timing could not have been lousier. He'd developed -- or acknowledged -- a crush on Jiroh on the very day Jiroh was making it with Oshitari's boyfriend.  
  
And what the hell did Oshitari think of that? For all that both Oshitari and Mukahi maintained that theirs was not a serious relationship, Atobe doubted Oshitari would cheerfully acquiesce to sharing Mukahi with Jiroh. For one thing, Oshitari was an intensely selfish being. He'd never liked sharing things that he regarded as justly his, and Mukahi surely came under that heading.  
  
It was all so messed up. Entirely heedless of the carefully sculpted gel in his hair, Atobe buried his head in his hands and groaned for all he was worth.  
  
It was time to take drastic measures.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe had been well brought up, so resting his head in his hand and dozing off was not an option when out on a date with a pretty girl. In his heart of hearts, he could tell that she was terribly nervous. This was the reason for her incessant babbling, her tinkling laughter, her constant fiddling with her hair. Yet even with this knowledge firmly at the forefront of his brain, Atobe couldn't help but be annoyed by her. Very annoyed.  
  
Still, he was going to see this through to the end. It meant pressing his lips to hers. They were cold from the night air and covered with a sticky substance that felt like it had come from the belly of a whale. It was nothing like the rapidly absorbed lip balm Atobe wore to protect his lips from chapping during matches.   
  
He didn't object when she stuck her tongue in his mouth, even though he thought it quite forward of her. If he weren't already thoroughly uninterested in her charms, it would have put him off. He couldn't quite place the sensation -- a little rough, extremely wet, and warm in an unpleasant way -- but he had a feeling that he shouldn't need to be analysing it.   
  
"Wow, Atobe-kun," the girl said on drawing back. Her eyes were a little glazed, but that could have been from the wine. She'd made a fuss about not being of legal age. Atobe didn't waste his breath informing her that money could smooth many rocky pathways, including this one. She'd partaken of plenty in spite of her reservations.  
  
"Goodnight," he replied. He handed her out of the limousine like a gentleman, and made the driver stop outside an all-night drugstore so he could buy mouthwash.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
It was only by pretending that his eyes _weren't_ sliding across to Jiroh every five seconds that Atobe survived the trip to his cottage at all. Jiroh was giggling with Mukahi in the next seat. They looked like a couple of giddy grade-schoolers pulling a prank.   
  
The strong sunlight poured in the bus windows like molten beer, turning Jiroh's lightly tanned skin a fiery gold. Atobe wanted to reach out a hand and stroke his fingertips across Jiroh's cheek. He wondered if he was going entirely insane or just slightly.  
  
Oshitari didn't seem to mind his boyfriend's blatant flirting. He was reading a romance novel with every evidence of enjoyment. Atobe didn't even want to imagine what Shishido and Ohtori were doing in the backseat.  
  
The day was hot for the mountains, and Mukahi immediately proclaimed his intention of swimming in the pool. Oshitari paused to ascertain that they had Atobe's permission to do so before running -- actually running -- off after Mukahi to 'claim a room.'   
  
Ohtori sent Atobe an innocent look. Atobe passed a hand over his eyes. "Talk to the maids," he said. "I phoned ahead to ask them to prepare a suite for you."  
  
"Thank you." Ohtori frowned in puzzlement while scratching at a hickey on his neck.   
  
"I think you misunderstand me," sighed Atobe. "I asked them to prepare a suite ... for you and Shishido to share."  
  
"Really?" Ohtori's brown eyes lit up like Christmas puddings doused in brandy. "Did you hear that, Shishido-san? We get to share!"  
  
"Che," said Shishido, pulling down the brim of his cap. Atobe wasn't sure if he were blushing or smirking underneath.  
  
Atobe was about to send a maid to rouse Jiroh when two warm arms encircled him from behind. Atobe stiffened, feeling his heart begin to race. It had no call to be betraying Atobe like that. His stomach jumped, too.   
  
"Aa, Atobe-kun," mumbled Jiroh. "I'm so sleepy! Where'd everyone go?"  
  
Atobe cleared his throat, in which a number of frogs had instated an orchestra. "Mukahi and Oshitari are going for a swim in the pool. Ohtori and Shishido are inspecting their bedroom."  
  
"I think you mean 'christening' it," chuckled Jiroh. Maybe it was just sleep, but his voice sounded suddenly deeper. Huskier.  
  
"I don't care to think of it at all, thank you," said Atobe firmly. "Do you wish to swim too?"  
  
"That'd be fun," agreed Jiroh, but he made no move to take his arms from around Atobe's waist. In fact, he nestled his face into the crook of Atobe's neck and breathed in.  
  
"Jiroh?" asked Atobe suspiciously. "Are you ... smelling me?"  
  
A few strawberry blonde curls tumbled across his line of vision. "Yes. Atobe smells nice."  
  
"That's all very well, but --" Atobe struggled to find the right words, and also to prevent his hand from creeping up and threading through those messy curls. At that moment, a fortunate diversion appeared in the form of Mukahi. He was dressed in pink swimming trunks that clashed horribly with his hair, and wanted to know if Jiroh was coming or not at the top of his lungs.   
  
Actually, now that Atobe came to think about it -- while watching Jiroh scamper after Mukahi with sudden alertness -- maybe 'fortunate' wasn't the best way to describe it.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
"Don't you burn, Atobe?"   
  
"Hmm?" Atobe put a finger in his book and looked over the top of his tinted sunglasses. "What did you say, Jiroh?"  
  
Jiroh was standing in front of Atobe's sun lounger. He wore blue trunks, slightly damp from multiple dive-bombings and clinging to every muscled contour. Atobe swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.  
  
"Don't you burn? Your skin is very light." Jiroh put his head on one side. His hair was quickly drying in the heat and already beginning to kink. "My sister is the same, and she burns easily."  
  
Atobe noticed the bottle of sun lotion in Jiroh's hand. "You're quite right, but I always make sure to apply sunscreen every hour to prevent such an occurrence."  
  
"It's nearly been an hour," Jiroh pointed out, with an engaging smile. "I thought you might like to try mine. Its factor thirty, but it's scented with pineapple. It smells nearly as good as you."  
  
"Thank you," replied Atobe. He pretended not to notice Oshitari's smirk or Mukahi's stifled giggle. "I will ... try it."  
  
He reached out for the bottle, but Jiroh had already plumped down on the edge of Atobe's sun lounger. Without so much as a by your leave, he plucked Atobe's book out of his hands and placed it on the table with the drinks.   
  
"Hold on a minute --" Atobe began to protest, but he was abruptly halted when Jiroh placed a finger against his lips. It was cool and dry and Atobe felt his heart crash against his chest.  
  
"Page four hundred and twenty-five," said Jiroh. "Lie back, please."  
  
Afraid that everyone could hear the pounding of his heart, Atobe complied. He soon wished he hadn't when Jiroh poured a liberal amount of sun lotion into his hands and rubbed them together. The gesture was hopelessly suggestive. Atobe had to close his eyes. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Jiroh's hands on his bare chest.  
  
"It's all right, Atobe-kun." Jiroh's voice was low and pitched out of the others' range of hearing. "I won't hurt you."  
  
"I know that," snapped Atobe. "You startled me, that's all."  
  
"The cream's probably a bit cold, that's why you're shivering. Don't worry, it'll warm up as it sinks into your skin."   
  
"I'm not worried," grumbled Atobe. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest as Jiroh leaned forward, his hands sliding across Atobe's skin. In all honesty, Atobe couldn't have said if Jiroh's fingers were hot or cold; he just knew that they were leaving trails of shuddering sensation everywhere they went. His nipples were already standing up in hard little nubs, a fact Jiroh could not have failed to notice.  
  
"Do you want me to do your back, too?" asked Jiroh.  
  
Atobe hadn't wanted Jiroh to do his front. "No, that's all right. I'll be lying on my back. Thank you."  
  
"No problem," said Jiroh cheerily. "Oi, Gakuto, are you diving or making out?"  
  
"For crying out loud," muttered Atobe. He hadn't noticed the wet noises coming from his right before, having been fully occupied with Jiroh's sudden fixation with sun protection.   
  
Mukahi rolled off Oshitari with a reluctant mewl. Oshitari sent him on his way with a pat on the bottom and retrieved his now rather crumpled novel from under his sun lounger.  
  
" _Must_ you indulge in company?" demanded Atobe.  
  
"Jealous, are you?"   
  
"Of Mukahi?" Atobe snorted. "Hardly."  
  
"That's not what I meant," said Oshitari, mildly enough, although his eyes were flashing as they always did when someone cast aspersions on Mukahi. A loud splash accompanied Mukahi's entry into the water. Oshitari laughed, and Atobe reluctantly turned his eyes to where Jiroh was standing on the diving board.  
  
Really, those trunks were hardly modest. Especially when Jiroh was stretching and bouncing in preparation for his dive, pulling his skin taut over his hollow stomach and lightly defined muscles. Why, if Atobe squinted he could almost see --  
  
"Don't stare, Atobe-kun," laughed Oshitari. "You'll give yourself a wrinkle."  
  
"Excuse me, I was not staring," returned Atobe haughtily. "Whatever gave you that idea?"  
  
"Because I was too." Oshitari's voice brimmed with amusement. "Little Jiroh's turned out quite lovely, don't you think? His ass is nearly as sexy as my Gakuto's."  
  
Atobe winced, remembering Jiroh kissing the very same Gakuto to whom Oshitari was referring so familiarly. "Not everyone is as perverted as you, Oshitari."  
  
Oshitari raised one eyebrow. Atobe hated the way he could do that, when Atobe couldn't. "Not everyone admits it so readily, you mean. C'mon, Atobe. Don't pretend you haven't at least _looked_."  
  
"I'm going to have a shower," announced Atobe. "All this sunscreen is making me sticky." He ignored Oshitari's noise of disbelief, and didn't notice Jiroh's face as he emerged from the water in time to hear Atobe's parting shot.   
  
In the safety of a stall in the poolhouse, Atobe peeled away his trunks. As he slipped his hand down and began to move it just so, he reflected that he hadn't even been lying.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Jiroh was asleep with his head on Mukahi's shoulder. Atobe didn't know why this made him want to grind his teeth into powder, but Ohtori had glanced over at him more than once because of the strange sound.  
  
To add insult to injury, Mukahi was all but in Oshitari's lap at the same time, rubbing his cheek against Oshitari's and generally being a disgusting flirt. He didn't seem to mind that he was jostling Jiroh, or that he was two-timing him in his very presence.  
  
"Do you not like this film, Atobe?" ventured Ohtori during an ad break. "We can change the channel if you want."  
  
Atobe couldn't have even said what the film was called. "It's perfectly fine, Ohtori. In fact I may go to bed." _And leave all you lovebirds to it_ , he thought sourly.  
  
At his words Jiroh's eyes fluttered open. "Did someone say bed? I want to go to bed."  
  
"Atobe will show you to your room -- won't you, Atobe-kun?" Oshitari raised one eyebrow again. Atobe felt like ripping it off and feeding it to him. "Jiroh gets lost when he's sleepy."  
  
"Come along, then," barked Atobe. Jiroh got to his feet, wavering a little bit, and trotted after Atobe as he strode out.  
  
"What's wrong, Atobe?" Jiroh tugged his shirt. Of course, he was as fit as Atobe and perhaps even faster; it was no wonder he caught up so easily. "You seem out of sorts."  
  
"I'm just tired," lied Atobe. "Even ore-sama feels less than perfect when deprived of sleep."  
  
"I see." Jiroh was keeping pace with him now, his knuckles brushing Atobe's with every second step. "D'you want to borrow my sunscreen tomorrow too? I brought two bottles."  
  
"Thank you, but no." Atobe couldn't blot out the image of Jiroh holding Mukahi in his arms. "I have plenty of my own."  
  
Jiroh sagged. "Oh. Okay."  
  
"Here's your room." Atobe gestured to a door. "Sleep well, Akugatwa-kun."  
  
"Thank you, Atobe-kun," said Jiroh quietly.   
  
Tossing his head impatiently, Atobe made his way to his own suite. It was no business of his what his teammates got up to, or who they got up to it with. His foolish notion -- that he had some special feelings for Jiroh -- was just that: a notion. A notion, moreover, that did not befit the heir of the Atobe name -- or anyone with a particle of sense. Besides, Jiroh was involved with Mukahi. Oshitari didn't know or didn't care, so why should Atobe?   
  
He stayed awake until three in the morning trying to resolve that point.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Shishido had eventually been coerced into removing his shirt. This was mainly due to Mukahi's coaxing, itself inspired by Mukahi's insatiable curiosity. But even Mukahi had been stunned into silence by all the marks on Shishido's chest. He looked like he'd been attacked by a vampire wearing cherry lipstick.  
  
"I guess I got a little carried away," admitted Ohtori, when all eyes turned to him. Atobe noticed that although Ohtori's chest was categorically hickey-free, he was wearing long trousers. But Atobe quite liked the silver-haired minx, so he didn't bring that fact to Mukahi's attention.  
  
Atobe was just settling down for a surreptitious nap -- he certainly hadn't got his beauty sleep last night -- when a discreet cough alerted him to the butler's appearance. With an impatient flick of his hand, Atobe gestured the man closer.  
  
"My apologies, Atobe-san." The butler bowed low. "A message has come through from the housekeeper in Tokyo."  
  
"Some kind of emergency?" Atobe's chest tightened. Nearly all of the most important people in his world were right here with him -- and currently fighting over the last lemon crush cocktail, he noted with annoyance -- but that didn't rule out his parents. He tried to remember where they were. Okaasan was probably at the Paris fashion shows. Otousan had mentioned something about a trip to China in his last memo.  
  
"Ah, not quite." The butler coughed. "You appear to have been receiving a number of phone calls to your home residence. The young lady in question was quite ... insistent, I believe. In truth, the housekeeper is at her wit's end. She begs Atobe-san to at least call the girl, or change the phone number."  
  
Atobe's heart sank. There was only one girl who had his number -- the girl with whom he'd gone on that single, disastrous date. Perhaps _he'd_ drunk more wine than was wise, to say that he'd given her such vital information.  
  
"How often has she called?" asked Atobe. Poolside, his teammates took a sudden interest in the conversation -- all bar Shishido, who took the opportunity to steal the last cocktail and spit in it so no one else would want it.  
  
"Twenty times," replied the butler. Atobe's eyes widened. "A day," added the butler.  
  
"Very well," said Atobe ungraciously. "You have the number there?"  
  
The butler brandished a piece of notepaper embossed with the Atobe crest, now soiled with a string of numbers. Atobe snatched it and gestured the man away. It was churlish to take his temper out on someone who had no control over the situation, but Atobe was not feeling particularly fair-minded at that moment. How dare this girl assume that she had the right to pester him with her attentions? Atobe had made her no promises. And what the _hell_ was her name, again?  
  
He turned around to find a curious ensemble. Shishido was guzzling his drink with all the grace of a wildebeest at a watering hole, but the other four were staring at Atobe with undisguised shock. Oshitari and Mukahi had moved to flank Jiroh, almost as if he were about to fall over.   
  
"If you want more cocktails, just tell the maids," snapped Atobe. "That's what they're there for."  
  
"Atobe-san," whispered Jiroh, and was it Atobe's imagination or did Jiroh's voice sound congested? Perhaps he was coming down with a cold. He probably hadn't dried his hair properly after swimming yesterday.   
  
"You have a girlfriend?" asked Mukahi. His voice was unnaturally loud and fell into a sudden void of noise. Even the bees buzzing around the rosebushes and pretending to look busy appeared to have fallen silent.  
  
"You never mentioned that." By contrast Oshitari's voice was almost a hiss. Atobe had never heard him use that tone before.   
  
"Why should I mention it? It is not remotely important." Atobe raked a hand through his hair. If the girl had sparked his attention at all -- if he could even remember her name -- he would of course have informed his teammates. His friends. But she hadn't and he didn't, so why were they acting like he'd admitted to roasting babies over spits?  
  
"Atobe-senpai," said Ohtori rebukingly. "A girlfriend is a very important thing. I am sure she would agree."  
  
Atobe snorted, thinking of the all the split-ends the girl gave herself by twirling her hair. "I'm sure she would."  
  
"I have to go --" Jiroh pushed past Mukahi. The little acrobat went right into the pool and emerged spluttering and enraged. But no one paid him any attention, because in his rush Jiroh went skidding on the wet tiles. With a sickening lurch, Atobe saw Jiroh fall. There was a dull crack, and Jiroh lay very still.  
  
Atobe stood frozen. He couldn't even bring himself to help his friend, as the others were doing. Mukahi flopped out of the pool and scrambled over to Jiroh without even getting to his feet. Shishido dropped his cocktail with a smash of glass and hared off after the butler. Oshitari began to perform CPR.  
  
Vaguely, Atobe wondered where Ohtori was. He didn't wonder for long, because all of a sudden his body started to move all on its own. He dropped to his knees and was sick on the grass. Ohtori was right behind him, cool hands holding his hair away from his mouth as he retched and retched. Ohtori made soothing noises, like Atobe was a child or a wary dog.  
  
"It's all right," Ohtori was saying. "He'll be fine, it's all right."   
  
Atobe pretended to be sick again so Ohtori wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
"A bad concussion." The doctor unlooped his stethoscope and placed it in his huge black bag. He could have fit a dead body in there easily, Atobe reflected. "If he doesn't wake up in the next twenty-four hours there could be permanent damage, but he's young and strong. I'll be back at eight o'clock to check on him."  
  
"Wait, you aren't staying?" Atobe was aware that his voice was high and frantic, but he couldn't help it. "How much do I have to pay you to get you to stay?"  
  
The doctor's expression was half-pity, half-sympathy. Atobe couldn't decide which he hated more. "I have other patients to tend to, Atobe-san. Besides, there is nothing more I can do for Jiroh-kun at the moment. He needs quiet and rest so that his body can recover quickly."  
  
"Can I -- see him?"   
  
"Of course. Don't make any loud noises, or turn on bright lights." With a ubiquitously reassuring smile, the doctor slipped out of the room.  
  
Feeling as if every step was taken over sharp knives, Atobe went into Jiroh's bedroom and crossed to the bed. Jiroh lay unnaturally still. His face was pale. The doctor had dressed the gash on his forehead, but there was still blood in his hair. There was blood on the pool tiles, too. Atobe had seen it when they carried Jiroh inside, although Ohtori had tried to stop him looking.  
  
"Oh, Jiroh," murmured Atobe. He sank to the floor beside Jiroh's bed. One of Jiroh's hands lay lax on the coverlet, and Atobe curled his fingers around it. He wanted to curse and call on the gods he barely believed in, demanding or pleading that they made Jiroh well again. He wanted to turn back time so that he could catch Jiroh before he fell. He wanted a lot of things, and for the first time in his life money could buy none of them.  
  
He didn't know how long had passed before Ohtori found him and made him come away. "You'll be no help to Jiroh if you collapse too," said Ohtori firmly, which was the only part of his reasoning that convinced Atobe to follow him to the dining room.  
  
There, everyone else was staring down at barely-touched plates of dinner. Ohtori went around the table, clapping his hands and chiding them. Mukahi shook his head; his eyes welled with tears. Oshitari managed a few bites before turning away with a moue of disgust. Even Shishido only fiddled with a rice cake for ten minutes before shoving it back and slumping down in his chair.  
  
Atobe hadn't been raised to give precedence to his emotions. He ate methodically, clearing his plate piece by piece. Ohtori looked at first pleased and then concerned by his behaviour, but Atobe paid him no mind. "May I go back now?" he asked, as soon as he'd swallowed the last grain of rice.  
  
Ohtori said nothing, looking to Oshitari for guidance. Atobe was at the door when Oshitari spoke.  
  
"Baka."  
  
"What do you say?" Atobe kept his voice low, giving Oshitari the chance to take it back.  
  
"I said --" Oshitari stalked up and shoved his face down into Atobe's "-- _baka_. You. Are. An. Idiot."  
  
Atobe curled his lip, all the polite manners that had been hammered into him flying out of his head. "Watch your mouth, Oshitari."  
  
"Why'd you have to go spout all that about your girlfriend, huh?" snarled Oshitari. "You knew Jiroh liked you and you went and said that like you didn't care, like he didn't even _matter_ \--"  
  
"Wait, what?" Atobe pressed a hand to his suddenly clammy forehead. "What are you talking about? Jiroh likes me?"  
  
"Of course he likes you!" spat Oshitari. "He's been trying to pluck up the courage to tell you for months now. Like it wasn't obvious, Atobe. Don't tell me you and your famous intuition missed that."  
  
"Yuushi," said Mukahi warningly.  
  
"Don't, Gakuto." Oshitari held up a hand to his boyfriend, never taking his burning glare from Atobe's face. He opened his mouth wide to enunciate the words clearly. "It's _your_ fault he fell, Atobe."  
  
All the air whooshed out of Atobe's lungs. He felt dizzy, and clutched the doorframe for support. "No."  
  
"Yes! You shocked him -- if he hadn't needed to run off to save a tiny bit of dignity he wouldn't have slipped --"  
  
"Yuushi!" cried Mukahi, at the same time as Ohtori exclaimed, "That's enough, Oshitari-senpai."  
  
"But --" Atobe blinked rapidly. His vision seemed to have become blurry. And his face was wet. Was he bleeding? Had he gone blind? No time to think about that now "-- I saw him. With Mukahi -- they were kissing. Why would he -- he doesn't like _me_ , he likes Gakuto ..."  
  
"That was -- well." Oshitari scowled and snatched off his glasses. "Jiroh asked me for advice. He wasn't getting anywhere on his own." A little of the fire returned to his glare. "He doesn't have much experience anyway. At least we could help him with that. I gave him some suggestions as to letting you know how he felt, and Gakuto taught him how to kiss properly. He kissed Gakuto for you, Atobe, you -- _baka_."   
  
Finishing on a last hiss, he turned and strode from the room. With a helpless look at Ohtori, Mukahi darted after him.  
  
Atobe felt remarkably clear-headed and unmoved. His earlier faltering had drained him. He resolved to work harder in future not to expose such weakness.  
  
"Atobe-senpai?" Ohtori's voice was soft and uncertain. Shishido was standing nearby, twirling his cap like he always did when nervous.   
  
"I'm going to check on Jiroh, like I said earlier," stated Atobe.   
  
"All -- all right." Ohtori shared a glance with Shishido. Atobe suddenly hated them and their looks and their synchronicity.   
  
With something like unadulterated joy, Atobe saw that Jiroh's eyes were open and blinking when he arrived. He started forward, only to see Jiroh's face contort into a hideous grimace.  
  
"Atobe!" cried Jiroh. "No, go away! I don't want you! I want Gakuto! Gakuto! Gakuto!"  
  
His calls were loud enough to summon Ohtori, who had clearly followed Atobe. He flipped open his phone and rang Mukahi. "Calm down, Jiroh," he said, moving into the room. He sat on the bed, hiding Atobe from view. Jiroh quietened a little. "Gakuto will be here in a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"  
  
"Yes." Jiroh's voice was wobbly, but still quite clear. "Make Atobe go away."  
  
Ohtori didn't need to. By the time Ohtori turned around, Atobe was gone, walking rapidly down the thickly carpeted hall and pretending he didn't care.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe did everything he could think of to make Jiroh's convalescence more tolerable. He flew in Jiroh's parents and put them up in the plushest of the guest rooms, the one with its own atrium and Jacuzzi. He hired a fleet of experts to inspect Jiroh and confirm that the doctor's diagnosis was correct. Every day he had a present delivered to Jiroh's room -- a green plushie (he'd noted that the colour was under-represented on Jiroh's bedroom shelf), his favourite comics, a book, DVDs to play on the plasma TV he had installed on the first day. But never once did Atobe set foot in the room himself.  
  
When Jiroh was well enough, Atobe gave orders to the staff to prepare a new bedroom for him, one that overlooked the pool. From there he could sit on the window seat and call down to the others. Jiroh himself had insisted that they return to enjoying themselves, and after a little reluctance they obeyed his request. Someone always stayed in the bedroom with him and helped him make fun of those trick acting in the water.  
  
Atobe sat on a sofa in the hallway and listened to the low hum of Jiroh's chatter, the soft pad of Jiroh's mother's footsteps as she ran little errands for her son (Atobe had put a team of maids at her personal service, but oddly enough she preferred to do things herself), the contented sounds of Jiroh's father smoking a pipe and reading the sports sections from twenty-seven newspapers. Atobe kept a phone in his lap in case Jiroh should need anything, and a book to provide an alibi for being there. In truth he hadn't read more than a few pages in a whole week.  
  
Oshitari approached Jiroh's door, ready to relieve Shishido. He was wearing a navy and white yukata. This annoyed Atobe. Oshitari could have bothered to get dressed.   
  
To Atobe's surprise, Oshitari stopped in front of his sofa instead of entering. "Still engrossed, I see. Page twenty already? You _are_ a fast reader, Atobe-kun."  
  
With an immense effort Atobe prevented himself from doing something rash, like sticking Oshitari's glasses up his nose. "You do talk a vast deal of nothing, Oshitari-kun. And you're keeping Jiroh waiting."  
  
"Such solicitude!" Oshitari's voice was mocking. "One would almost think you cared."  
  
"I do care," snapped Atobe. "Jiroh nearly died. Do you think I'm so cold-hearted I could forget that?"  
  
Something in Oshitari's face relented slightly. "No, I don't. Truthfully, I'm just confused. How can you sit here every day and wait for Jiroh to ask for something you can provide, but not walk in there and tell him the thing he most wants to hear?"  
  
"I'm sure I don't know to what you are referring," said Atobe stiffly. "And Jiroh made it quite clear that he didn't want me to visit him. So I shan't."  
  
"Che, would you listen to yourself? You sound like a five-year-old! Jiroh was upset and he'd just been injured. He still thinks you have a girlfriend. He still thinks you've broken his heart without a care in the world. He deserves to be told the truth."  
  
"Oshitari, you've been reading far too many romantic novels." Atobe was nearing the end of his tether, although he was well schooled enough not to show it. "While it may -- _may_ \-- be true that I care for Jiroh a little, it makes no difference in the grand scheme of things. It's all very well for you and Ohtori to fool around with other boys, but you don't have the obligations and expectations I do. I am the only child in the Atobe family. I am required to marry and produce an heir."  
  
"Calm down," drawled Oshitari. "No one's expecting you to make a life-long commitment here. Even if you went out with Jiroh, or -- how did you put it? -- fooled around with him, it probably won't be the great passion of your life. It's just a little fun."  
  
"Is that what you and Mukahi do? Have a little fun?"   
  
Atobe could have sworn that Oshitari stiffened. "What Gakuto and I do is no concern of yours. We aren't spreading our problems around like some venereal disease. I've gone out with girls before and I probably will again. But right now, I have Gakuto and ... I really don't want anyone else. That's a good feeling, Atobe. You're stupid to deny yourself the chance to feel like that."  
  
"I can live without the censure of the world, thank you." Atobe snorted and Oshitari gave up.   
  
At that point Ohtori came in search of Shishido. Oshitari took the chance to ask them if they'd gone out with anyone else -- perhaps to stress the point that what they had was an inconstant and short-lived thing, Atobe didn't know.   
  
"I made out with a few girls when Shishido left for high school, but that's it." Ohtori shrugged.  
  
"Nope, there was no one else." At their stares, Shishido tugged at his cap and added defensively, "What? I was busy! With tennis, and ... school and stuff." It was hardly the most romantic declaration Atobe had ever heard in his life, but it made Ohtori smile fit to burst. Shishido blushed.  
  
"Yeah, but you're only seventeen," said Oshitari dismissively. "There's plenty of time."  
  
"My parents met when they were seventeen." Shishido cleared his throat. "Hey, Ohtori, feel like playing a match?"  
  
Oshitari stared after them, disgust and pensiveness mingled on his features. Atobe sniggered. "Perhaps I'm not the only one feeling something he can't admit to himself, ne?" he suggested. Oshitari merely scowled and stomped into Jiroh's room.   
  
It was only when he was gone -- and Atobe had time to mull over the conversation -- that he realised he'd pretty much implied he felt something too.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe couldn't sleep -- a new and disturbing development. He always did yoga and drank herbal teas prior to sleeping; he had the maids spray his sheets with lavender to ensure restful slumber. He did not feel up to dealing with insomnia.  
  
Perhaps it was because he hadn't been getting his usual amount of exercise lately. He decided this even as he was pulling on a raw silk dressing gown and slippers embroidered with his personal crest. A little walk would tire him out sufficiently. Perhaps he would even take a detour to the kitchens and make some hot chocolate from the machine. He didn't like to call the maids at this hour, even though there was a night roster for that very purpose.  
  
He found himself by the pool with no clear recollection of how he'd got there. It was the first time he'd visited since Jiroh's accident. He was drawn to the site, his slippers scuffing over the tiles. They'd been meticulously scrubbed clean and not even the faintest mark remained to show where Jiroh's blood had spilled.  
  
It seemed Atobe had given up the ghost, for a strange feeling of calm engulfed him at that moment. He sat down on a sun lounger that might have smelled slightly of pineapple, and shrugged off his dressing gown. The night air was warm and he didn't need it. In fact he was almost too hot, so he kicked off his slippers too and curled his toes against the cool tiles.  
  
A lone, heat-sensitive floodlight had come on at his arrival. The lamps beneath the surface of the water lit up with an eerie blue glow. Atobe recalled parties his parents had held here. The pool had been laced with floating flowers that filled the air with heady perfume. As darkness fell and Atobe hid from his nurses, the lights shone up through the flowers like the torches of mermaids. When he'd said as much to his mother she told him not to be foolish, and where was Nurse Marcia? Nurse Marcia had left the Atobe employ soon after that, if Atobe remembered rightly.  
  
There were no flowers now, no overdressed women pretending to laugh at his father's blandishments, no tinkle of wineglasses. Just the water, and the light.   
  
Without really thinking about it, Atobe stood up and pulled his pyjama shirt over his head. He let his pants fall and stepped away, relishing for a moment the forbidden feel of air purling against his bare skin. Then he rose to his toes and executed a perfect dive into the pool.  
  
He opened his eyes as his fingers touched the pebbled surface at the bottom. This was not an Olympic-standard pool but a fashionable, kidney-shaped one. There was a Jacuzzi at one end and a flight of steps at the other, where women in heavy makeup and impeccable costumes could pretend to be in the water without wetting anything more important than their manicured toes.  
  
Atobe surfaced and turned on his back. The cool water sent delicious shivers down his skin. He felt vaguely aroused -- not enough to do anything about it, but enough to give the sensation of swimming naked an extra little frisson.  
  
He rested his elbows on one of the many handholds and let the rest of his body float. An inflated lilo bobbed past. Atobe had caught glimpses of Shishido and Mukahi holding staged battles over the possession of the thing. Ohtori had given Atobe a strange look when he offered to buy a new one to stop the fights.  
  
"But they like it, Atobe-kun," Ohtori had said, which puzzled Atobe exceedingly. Still, he did not offer again.  
  
Atobe idly scissored his legs, loving the way the water flowed into places that were usually well protected by swimming trunks. It felt ... naughty. Purposely naughty, which was different from accidentally breaking vases or spilling food and being told that it was 'naughty,' even though Atobe had never meant to do them. Heat was beginning to pool in his groin and he was just thinking about slipping his hand under the water when --  
  
"How's the water, Atobe-kun?"  
  
"Jiroh?" Atobe went to say, only shock loosened his hold on the side and he sank underwater. When he emerged, several feet away from where he'd started and with streaming eyes, Jiroh was perched on the edge. His pyjama pants were rolled up and he was splashing his legs in the water.  
  
Jiroh's eyes flickered from the puddles of clothing to Atobe's face, which was heating up in spite of himself. A smirk tugged at the corners of Jiroh's lips. "Atobe-kun, are you _naked_?"  
  
"Yes," said Atobe, with as much dignity as he could muster. It wouldn't have filled a thimble. "What -- what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" _And not talking to me_? he added mentally, but he couldn't lower himself enough to say it aloud.  
  
"I've had plenty of sleep, thanks. Plus, the light woke me." Jiroh gestured at the floodlight. Of course, Jiroh's room was in the wing facing the pool. "I looked out of the window and I saw you."   
  
"You saw me?" repeated Atobe. "Oh."   
  
Jiroh had seen him taking his clothes off.   
  
For some reason this only made the heat between Atobe's legs intensify, until it was all he could do to keep his hands treading water. The blush didn't abate, though. If anything it worsened.  
  
"So." Jiroh thoughtfully gazed up at the sky. "Oshitari told me you had something to say."  
  
"He did?" Atobe cursed the meddler's name. He'd be on the next flight back to Kansai if Atobe had anything to do with it. "Well, I suppose I should have told you about the girl I went out with. I didn't mean to shock anyone. Especially you. That is, I'm very sorry that you slipped and I would do anything to --" Atobe frowned. This wasn't coming out at all right.   
  
He looked at Jiroh. The boy was still staring at the stars. Curls fell over the gauze bandage so that it was hardly visible. Anyway, Atobe was more interested in the long pale column of his throat and how much he wanted to touch it. Wait -- no, he didn't. His mind was betraying him again.  
  
"I'd do anything to make it up to you," finished Atobe, after an embarrassing pause.  
  
"Really?" Jiroh's head came down, bringing his gaze in line with Atobe's. Atobe flushed so hard he could barely breathe. Honestly, this reaction was totally disproportionate. Why were his ears thundering like there was a brass band nearby? None of it made any sense.  
  
"Yes," he managed.  
  
Reflected, watery light danced across Jiroh's face. Atobe watched, mesmerised.   
  
"Okay, then, Atobe-kun. Do you own any Speedos?"

__

Atobe was no stranger to getting attention for his choice of attire. Certain unsophisticated people -- i.e. Shishido -- couldn't seem to tell the difference between couture and crap. If Alexander McQueen decided that powder-blue frills were in, who was Atobe to naysay him? Try explaining that to a plebe like Shishido Ryou, though.  
  
However, Atobe usually had the strength of his own convictions to bolster him. Knowing that Jiroh was the one behind the Speedo travesty did nothing whatsoever for Atobe's confidence.   
  
Jiroh had been deemed healthy enough to come out to the pool, although he was under strict instructions not to swim or weary himself. His parents had caught an early flight back home. Apparently his father was only entitled to so many days compassionate leave per year. It was an extraordinary system to Atobe's mind. He knew his own father would never come close to qualifying for anything with the word compassionate in it, but he still took at least five annual vacations.  
  
When Atobe stalked out of the poolhouse -- towel slung around his shoulders, sunglasses perched on his head, and a tiny shiny piece of fabric preserving his modesty -- Ohtori smiled, Oshitari smirked, Mukahi sniggered and Shishido fell off his sun lounger through laughing so much. Jiroh, who was curled up in an easy chair brought down for his express use, took one look at Atobe and sat up straight. His cheeks were a little flushed from sleep and sun and his hair was flattened on one side, but he appeared wide-awake now.  
  
"Shishido, do you require medical assistance?" Atobe looked at the wheezing boy with distaste, while Ohtori tried to shush him with a convenient cocktail.  
  
"Atobe looks awesome!" proclaimed Jiroh. Atobe gave him a weak smile and claimed a sun lounger, trying not to cover himself with his towel in too obvious a manner.  
  
However, his trials were not over. Jiroh scrambled out of his easy chair and snapped the lid off a very familiar bottle. "Turn over, Atobe-kun," he said importantly. "I'll put cream on your back for you."  
  
"Do as the boy says." Oshitari sounded far too amused for his own good. Probably no one would blame Atobe if he killed Oshitari with a beach ball and hid his body in the maze. "You don't want to burn all that pretty skin, do you?"  
  
With a bitten-back snarl, Atobe rolled over. He tried to prepare himself for the onslaught. The last time Jiroh had laid hands on him, it had been completely unexpected. Moreover the whole experience lasted not more than two minutes. From the way Jiroh was settling down comfortably on the side of Atobe's sun lounger, he'd be lucky to get off so easily this time.  
  
He settled down and resigned himself to his fate. This mainly consisted of tensing every muscle possible, something Jiroh found cause to remark upon when he laid his hands on Atobe's shoulder.  
  
"You have loads of tension knots," he scolded. "Relax, Atobe-kun. This won't hurt."  
  
Jiroh dribbled the cream on to Atobe's back, making what felt like a spiral pattern. Then he began to spread it around, his touch firm. He swirled his fingertips into the dips of Atobe's vertebrae and stroked up Atobe's sides. The slightly rough pads made Atobe's muscles melt underneath them. He began to emit soft little sighs that he was barely aware of making, and one by one the other boys drifted away until it was just Atobe and Jiroh by the pool.   
  
"Your skin is very soft," said Jiroh after a while. He was still running his hands lightly up and down Atobe's back, although Atobe didn't think he could be more comprehensively covered in sunscreen unless Jiroh had used a paintbrush and fire fighting hose.  
  
"Mhmm," returned Atobe. He didn't think Jiroh would be interested in a run-down of the treatments, massages, seaweed wraps, mud baths and exfoliations of which he partook every month. Well, actually, he didn't think he could engage his brain sufficiently to produce speech right at that moment, but he liked the other reason better.  
  
Jiroh's fingers were rubbing little circles into the nape of Atobe's neck now. The touch sent shivers down each nerve ending he brushed. Atobe just stopped himself arching up into Jiroh's palms like a greedy cat.  
  
There was slow shift of weight on the lounger. Jiroh's shadow fell across Atobe's face as he turned his head to ask where Jiroh was going. Jiroh wore a sorrowful smile -- the sort of smile people used at funerals and the end of sad movies. His fingertips burned coldly against Atobe's neck.  
  
When Jiroh spoke, his voice was a little strange. "Thank you for indulging me, Atobe-kun. I hope we can still be friends, even though I was foolish."  
  
"Foolish?" Atobe felt a wash of confusion. "How were you foolish?"  
  
"Like this," said Jiroh, and pressed his mouth to the soft skin just above his fingers, where Atobe's ear met his jaw. Atobe gasped, but not from repulsion. Jiroh's lips were tickled like dry leaves.   
  
Atobe stared at Jiroh when he drew away, looking guilty but not remotely repentant. "What -- Jiroh --" _I thought you were still angry with me_ , was what he meant to say. Jiroh got there first.  
  
"That makes an end of it, now." Jiroh's fingers glided along Atobe's cheekbone, up, up and away. "I'm not sorry for liking you, Atobe-kun. But I _am_ sorry for being stupid enough to think you could like me back. Please accept my apology."  
  
"I -- yes, of course, but --"  
  
"Thank you." Jiroh's smile was brighter than the sun, sadder than a weeping statue's. "Atobe is always gracious."  
  
Atobe opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Jiroh stood up and bowed. Then he was walking away, and Atobe wasn't stopping him because he couldn't possibly stand up in this condition, with the stupid Speedos stretched to breaking point.   
  
He dropped his head on to the lounger in defeat. A waft of pineapple rose from where lotion had spilled on the towel. On impulse, Atobe grabbed up the bottle. Garish pineapples in dresses and tap shoes pranced across the label. He stared at them, hoping they would inspire him to find the right words to call Jiroh back before it was too late. But they just went on prancing, looking faintly psychotic.  
  
Atobe was not given to profanity. He thought it was uncultured, both to use the words and to lose control to the extent that their use was necessary. In the rare cases when he'd indulged, it had only been the mildest terms and a single repetition.  
  
But there was a first time for everything.   
  
" _Fuck_! Fucking fucking fuck!"   
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Everything changed when they went back to school.  
  
Oh, to be fair, the paint job was still hideous, the fan girls remained annoying and tennis club was the same as ever. Loath as he was to admit it, Atobe eventually realised that it was only Jiroh who was different. But it might as well have been everything.  
  
Jiroh was scrupulously polite to Atobe, but he no longer napped on the bench near where Atobe changed. He didn't compliment his hair or his smell or his legs. Most cruelly of all, Atobe was no longer Jiroh's pillow of choice.   
  
Atobe treated himself to a new range of toiletries to cheer himself up. When he got home, he saw that he'd unerringly picked those that were pineapple flavoured, coloured or scented every time.  
  
He wasn't the only one having problems. The events of the holiday had spurred Oshitari to pursue new love interests -- of a female persuasion. Muhaki went around with a face like a wet week for two whole days, before he popped up with a girlfriend of his own and suggested double dating. Mukahi and his girlfriend -- who was a gymnast -- only got chummier, whereas Oshitari went through a string of girls who dumped him after one date. They claimed that his heart wasn't in it. Atobe knew very well that it wasn't, much like any other portion of Oshitari's anatomy. Oshitari grew more and more fed up. Although he should be relishing Oshitari's comeuppance, Atobe soon started to feel a horrible sort of empathy with his plight.   
  
Atobe made sure to set his would-be girlfriend straight on the very first day of school. She fled in tears from their meeting, but Atobe was satisfied that she wouldn't be calling him any time soon. Just in case, he changed his phone number. When he informed Jiroh of the new one -- hoping that it would provoke some or any kind of reaction -- Jiroh just blinked sleepily and said, "But why would I need to call you there, Atobe-kun? I have your mobile number."  
  
It was all very unsatisfactory.  
  
Now that he had no one to double date with, Oshitari was at a loose end. He ended up hanging around with Atobe far more than either of them liked, but there wasn't really another option. Mukahi was Jiroh's best friend, and Jiroh was close to Ohtori as well. They were the people with whom he studied and ate lunch. Shishido wasn't about to abandon his boyfriend for his captain and the team's tensai, who had both told him more than once that he was an hopelessly uncultured boor (Atobe) who probably slept with pigs (Oshitari). Mukahi's free time was tied up in the girl Oshitari dismissed as a 'titless, bumless pipe cleaner.' Privately Atobe thought that the gymnast looked as much like a boy as it was possible to be without actually being one, but he realised Oshitari wouldn't appreciate the comparison.  
  
They sat together watching _Titanic_ for the fifth time. In any case, it was Atobe's fifth time. He didn't like to think how many times Oshitari had seen it. The fact that he could mouth along to all the dialogue -- complete with facial expressions and gestures -- was disturbing enough. Atobe yawned and wondered whether text messaging his driver to pick him up would be construed as impolite or basic self-preservation.  
  
"Did you know that Jiroh is thinking about joining the art club?" asked Oshitari during the drawing scene. They didn't even pretend to be interested in Kate Winslet's breasts anymore.  
  
"What?" Atobe nearly fell out of his beanbag. He blamed Oshitari for providing him with such an uncouth mode of sitting.  
  
"Yeah." Oshitari tugged at his lip. "Apparently he takes art class and one of the boys asked him to join the club. From what Mukahi was saying, this boy may be after more than Jiroh's negligible drawing skills."  
  
"You mean ... he has an ulterior motive?" At Oshitari's cocked eyebrow, Atobe modified it to, "You think they're going out?"  
  
"From what I can tell the guy has a crush on Jiroh." Oshitari smirked. "You can hardly blame him. Jiroh is cute, even if you never wanted to admit it. I'm not sure if Jiroh would be stupid enough to join a club just to please someone, but maybe it's just a pretext for something else -- like a date."  
  
"Oh." Atobe swallowed rapidly, trying to wet his vocal cords enough to produce coherent words. He wanted to say something cool and indifferent, but what came out was, "I never said Jiroh wasn't cute."  
  
Both of Oshitari's eyebrows went up. "Please don't tell me you're saying what I think you're saying. Not _now_."  
  
"Well, no," said Atobe feebly. "I don't know what you think I'm saying."  
  
"I knew it!" In his excitement, Oshitari sat on the remote. The screen fast-forwarded past the bits with Leonardo's bare chest, which were the unacknowledged highlight of the film for its current audience. "I knew you liked him all the time!"  
  
"Hey, I never admitted that," protested Atobe.  
  
"I know you never admitted it," said Oshitari, his voice laden with tensai-flavoured scorn. "So are you going to ask him out before art-boy does?"  
  
Atobe kicked irritably at the outlying regions of beanbag. "You do leap to the most astonishing conclusions, Oshitari-kun. Am I not allowed to appreciate beauty where I find it, without being assigned all sorts of ridiculous judgements and reasons?"  
  
"Well, no," said Oshitari. "Not where other people are concerned. Give it up, Atobe. You've got the hots for Jiroh and the means to get into his pants. I don't know what the hell you're whining about."  
  
"Are you sure you're really talking about me now?" asked Atobe archly. Oshitari slumped back against his beanbag, looking cross. "I refuse to countenance your ludicrous suggestion. But --" Oshitari glanced up from under his lowering brows "-- I feel it imperative to remind Jiroh of his prior tennis commitments. I can't have him slacking off for finger-painting and cutting shapes out of potatoes."  
  
"It's been a while since you took an art class, I gather." Oshitari sounded amused. Atobe didn't say anything. His father had said that art was not a subject for men. He'd wanted Atobe's nursery school to remove it from the curriculum. Atobe had rather lost his enthusiasm for it after that.  
  
Silence reigned for a whole five seconds until Oshitari -- who was nothing if not more stubborn than a pen of bulls -- asked, "D'you think about him when you jack off?"  
  
"Do you think about Mukahi?" countered Atobe. He'd never, ever admit to Oshitari that the answer to his question was 'oh hell yes.' He'd rather be torn apart by jackals that'd been kept on a starvation diet for two months.   
  
Oshitari subsided. And rewound the DVD to Leonardo's naked chest, without being told.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Without ever being able to pinpoint how, Atobe's high-handed request that Jiroh honour his obligations to the tennis club before all other clubs somehow morphed into Atobe going over to Jiroh's house to inspect his drawings.  
  
Not that Atobe _minded_. Not per se. Not at all, actually. It was just that it hadn't been part of his _plan_.  
  
It was like old times as Jiroh chattered to him between yawns and investigations of the new stock in the limo's mini-fridge. Atobe pretended a slight annoyance with Jiroh's random conversational gambits, but inside he was simply and truly glad that Jiroh was there. That things seemed to be all right again.  
  
Jiroh's mother had left out a warm plate of American muffins for them. Although Atobe shuddered to think of their calorific content, he felt it would be gauche to refuse. The chocolate _did_ melt deliciously in his mouth.   
  
Jiroh managed to scatter crumbs far and wide. He even got some in his hair, which Atobe thought it his duty to remove. Going about with bits of muffin in one's coiffure was simply not done. Jiroh grinned and thanked him, and somehow Atobe ended up eating another muffin.  
  
Eventually they repaired to Jiroh's room, which was just as warm and welcoming as Atobe remembered. He took a seat on the bed while Jiroh rummaged out his art pads.  
  
The pads were mostly A2 size, and Jiroh's bed was very small. Atobe considered logistics, and came to the inevitable conclusion that he needed to conserve space if he were to properly observe Jiroh's work.   
  
In other words, Jiroh should sit on Atobe's lap.  
  
Atobe was well aware that Oshitari would consider this a low and dirty trick to inveigle his way into Jiroh's 'pants,' although in fact it was nothing of the sort. It was nothing more nor less than an intelligent solution to the dilemma. Atobe wasn't about to sit on the _floor_ , after all.   
  
"I think these are the best ones." Jiroh was biting his lower lip in concentration. His teeth slid across it repeatedly, making it all shiny and wet. "Are you sure you don't mind looking at them, Atobe-kun?"  
  
"I would have said so if I did," he drawled. "Pick up the ones you want to show me and sit on my lap."  
  
"Sure." Jiroh bent over to pick up the pads. The action caused the heavy cloth of Jiroh's school shirt to slip free from his trousers and inch down his back. Atobe would have to make a note to tell Jiroh to tuck in his shirts properly. "Wait, did you just say to sit on your _lap_?"  
  
"Indeed." Atobe scooted back a little. "This way we will both be able to view the paintings from the same angle, which will be most conducive to appreciating them."  
  
"Oh, okay." Jiroh shrugged. His tie was haphazardly knotted, too. It hung between the points of his collar like a noose. Was this the effect of falling asleep on any available surface? Really, Jiroh needed someone to follow him around and tidy him up between naps.  
  
Not that he didn't look sweet all crumpled like that, because he did. Although as a rule Atobe reserved the word sweet for describing the teeth of people who had nothing better to do than imbibe three days' worth of glucose in one sitting. People like Jiroh.  
  
With a small 'oomph,' Jiroh sat down on Atobe's lap. "Am I too heavy for you, Atobe-kun?"  
  
In truth Jiroh was, a little. But Atobe liked the warm weight on his legs -- and besides, this was the best angle. Like he'd said.   
  
"Don't worry about it, Jiroh," he replied, and reached his arms around Jiroh's waist to steady himself. He kept his hands lightly on Jiroh's bony hips as Jiroh opened the first of the pads and began to talk him through it.  
  
To Atobe's surprise, Jiroh's art wasn't half bad. Atobe doubted he'd be receiving commissions from corporate boardrooms any time soon, but his paintings were more than suitable to display in a family home or school art exhibition.  
  
When he said as much, Jiroh gave him a happy smile. He wriggled around to make sure Atobe saw it. In fact Jiroh wriggled a lot -- when he wasn't resting back against Atobe, his curls tucked under Atobe's chin, to let him see more clearly what Jiroh was talking about.  
  
"Do you really think so?" Jiroh's eyes were wide and liquid, like a baby seal's. "That's awesome!"  
  
"Good." Idly, Atobe flipped over the page. A sheaf of notebook paper fell out. "What's this? Notes from class?"  
  
"Ah, no. Don't look at them --!"  
  
But Atobe was already leaning over Jiroh's shoulder for a closer look. They seemed to be nothing more than rough sketches of a human form. Jiroh was trying to grab them away, which only incited Atobe's interest. Using his longer reach and the arm he had in place around Jiroh's waist, he pinned Jiroh down and held out the pages. The room seemed to grow several degrees hotter as he realised exactly who the drawings were _of_.  
  
Him.  
  
All Atobe, about twenty in all. Sitting at his desk, relaxing by the pool, laughing, even ...  
  
"Jiroh!" he said in a scandalised tone. "I have no clothes on in this one!"  
  
Jiroh wriggled again as he tried to squirm away. Atobe was having none of it. He pinioned Jiroh closer to his chest and said, "When did you --"  
  
"In the locker rooms," whispered Jiroh. "I never looked on purpose -- well, not often -- but when I woke up, sometimes you'd be ... well. But this was all ages ago," he hastened to add.  
  
"Oh yes?" said Atobe dryly. "Then why is this one dated last week?"  
  
Jiroh hung his head. "Atobe is a good subject, that's all."  
  
Atobe ran his finger along the sleek lines of shank and torso, which Jiroh had captured with just a few swift marks of charcoal. "Well, thank you."  
  
"You aren't mad?"   
  
Atobe chuckled. "I'm flattered. But this still doesn't excuse you from tennis club. I will be personally very annoyed if you miss practices for art club."  
  
"Nah." Jiroh nestled himself into Atobe's chest. "I don't think I'll be joining. Art's fun and all, but tennis is ... well, tennis."  
  
"I see what you mean," said Atobe, who did and was pleased.  
  
He looked for a little longer at the pictures of himself, particularly the studies _au naturel_. They weren't very graphic, given that there was nothing more than a dark smudge between his legs. Atobe should probably be grateful that Jiroh hadn't looked all that closely. In a few minutes a rhythmic shudder told him that Jiroh had done what he usually did when confronted with a comfortable pillow, and fallen asleep.   
  
Atobe smiled. He couldn't help it. Putting the art pads carefully aside, he wrapped the velvet comforter around Jiroh's knees. He'd curled up like a sea anemone against Atobe, his hands a warm barrier between his cheek and Atobe's shirt. Atobe kept his arms around Jiroh's waist. It would be negligent of him to let Jiroh topple over. If his fingers slipped under the loose hem of Jiroh's shirt to brush against the downy skin there, well, it was natural in the circumstances. It wasn't like Atobe _meant_ to do it.  
  
When he eventually went home, it was the newest nude sketch tucked safely in his schoolbag.   
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe wasn't in the habit of splurging on gifts for his friends when it wasn't birthday time. He was afraid that people would try to curry favour with him in return for expensive presents, like they did with his parents.   
  
In spite of that, he hadn't been able to resist when he saw the green silk shirt in Marc Jacobs. It was a lush, supple fabric that invited the buyer to stroke it. Atobe could picture it wrapped around Akutagawa Jiroh almost _too_ perfectly.  
  
He didn't regret his decision until he was standing outside Jiroh's house with the shirt in a large white box. What on earth would Jiroh's parents think? More importantly, what would _Jiroh_ think? Perhaps his gesture might be taken as casting aspersions on Jiroh's own wardrobe, which suited him down to the ground, even if it wasn't handmade in Italy or France. Perhaps Jiroh would just wonder if Atobe was insane or creepy or both.  
  
He almost changed his mind and bolted, but there was already a shadow behind the glass. He could hear Jiroh calling, "I've got it!"   
  
Despite his efforts to will it away, a fine blush lit up Atobe's face when Jiroh wrenched the door open. He was dressed in pyjamas -- well, it was Saturday -- and had a glass of juice in one hand.  
  
"Atobe-kun!" The greeting was a second too late, but Jiroh's smile was big enough and delighted enough to make up for it. "What on earth are you doing here? We don't have practice today, do we?"  
  
"No." Atobe cleared his throat. "I just came to, ah, visit."  
  
"Really? Cool!" Jiroh appeared to remember his manners. "Won't you please come in?"  
  
"Thank you." Atobe tried to hide the box behind his back, but as it was roughly twice his width this was a little hard to do. Jiroh's bright eyes flicked across it.  
  
"Did you bring a cake, Atobe-kun? You shouldn't have!"  
  
"It's not a cake." Atobe cleared his throat again. He wondered if he were developing a speech impediment. "It's actually a ... gift."  
  
"Oh, right." Jiroh handed Atobe a pair of house slippers. "D'you want to come up to my room? It's only my sister here, and she'll annoy you for ages if we stay down here."  
  
This was just what Atobe had been hoping for, so he immediately agreed and followed Jiroh up the stairs. Jiroh's pyjamas bore the hallmarks of many washings, being so thin they were almost transparent. The drawstring waistband was also giving out, for it slipped down with every step Jiroh took.  
  
"I'll just get changed," said Jiroh, making to grab a pile of clothes from a chair. Atobe, who'd taken a seat on the bed, jumped up so quickly Jiroh might be forgiven for thinking it had suddenly caught fire.  
  
"Wait." Atobe cleared his throat _again_ \-- he was calling a linguistic specialist as soon as he got home -- and pushed the box at Jiroh. "I saw this and ... I thought you might like it."  
  
"The gift was for me?" Jiroh beamed. "But why, Atobe? It isn't my birthday or anything."  
  
"Yes, well." Atobe waved a hand, finding he couldn't meet Jiroh's eyes. "You might hate it."  
  
"I wouldn't hate anything Atobe gave me," declared Jiroh. He was already tugging aside the layers of tissue paper. When he saw the silk beneath, he drew in an awed breath. " _Atobe_. This is too generous."  
  
"At least try it on." Atobe sat down on the bed again. His knees felt rather wobbly. Perhaps he had flu? That would explain the throat problem, too.  
  
"Okay." Jiroh knelt up and pulled his sleeping shirt over his head.   
  
Atobe hadn't meant to look, he hadn't -- he'd just glanced over at Jiroh's voice and now he was stuck staring at all that creamy skin and nipples. Jiroh had nipples. Atobe had been aware of the fact in the same way he knew Jiroh had a liver, but he hadn't really thought about them before. They were light pink, like strawberry ice cream. It would probably be less socially acceptable to lick Jiroh's nipples, though. Not that Atobe wanted to lick his nipples. He was just making a detached observation.   
  
Jiroh stood up and moved over to his mirror, holding the shirt like it was the Body of Christ. Slowly, reverently, he slipped it over his shoulders and hooked the top button through its hole.  
  
Atobe decided to help him. Jiroh was so entranced by the shirt that he'd probably spend the next year buttoning it up.   
  
Jiroh startled when Atobe's hands came around him, but he relaxed as Atobe's deft fingers made short work of the buttons. Jiroh let his hands fall to his sides, stroking over the hem. It fell beautifully, Atobe noted with no little measure of smugness.   
  
"So." Atobe snicked the last button in place and patted it down. "What do you think?"  
  
"It's _amazing_." Jiroh looked at his reflection. "I look ..."  
  
"You look beautiful." At Jiroh's stunned expression, Atobe hastily added, "Which is what designer clothing can do, provided you have a good base to start with."  
  
As recoveries went, it wasn't much better.  
  
"Thank you," said Jiroh softly. "But I can't possibly keep it."  
  
"Well, I can't wear it. Green is all wrong from my complexion. So if you don't keep it, I'll have to throw it out."  
  
"No!" Jiroh's hands clenched at the cloth, tugging it down. It really did make his skin luminous. "Fine, Atobe. I'll keep it. But I have to repay you somehow!"  
  
Jiroh's yearly allowance probably wouldn't have covered it. "There's really no need. Your pleasure is all the repayment I need."  
  
They stood there for a while longer, Jiroh staring down at the shirt and Atobe staring at Jiroh. To excuse himself, he fiddled with the shirt: tugging the hem straight, pulling at a loose thread, settling it more evenly on Jiroh's shoulders.  
  
"It really doesn't go with my pants," said Jiroh after a while, sounding rueful. Atobe followed his gaze to the washed out pyjamas and couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"I shouldn't worry. If you go out wearing that shirt, no one will look at your trousers." Atobe caught Jiroh's eyes in the mirror, and the deeply thoughtful expression in them startled him. "Well. I must be going."  
  
"Thank you again." Jiroh turned, fluid as air, and wrapped his arms around Atobe's neck. He held Atobe tight, and after a moment Atobe put his hands on Jiroh's waist and hugged back. The skin-warmed silk moved pleasurably under his palms. Atobe couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged. It had been a long time ago.  
  
And it was certainly worth more than any designer shirt, no matter what anyone else might say.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
It was Atobe's party, and he was dancing with Jiroh.  
  
This was perfectly acceptable. His mother said the perfect host or hostess should make sure to dance with all the most important guests, to make them feel valued and appreciated. That his mother only danced with beautiful young men two decades her junior was clearly some incomprehensible strategic manoeuvre, but the theory itself was sound.  
  
Of course, it helped that Jiroh was a good dancer. Atobe had taken lessons from a young age and knew as many steps as any Strictly Ballroom fan, but Jiroh had a natural rhythm. He was well able to keep up with Atobe when Atobe started to show off, by copying his moves and embellishing them. Atobe actually found himself breaking a sweat -- and laughing. Both were rare occurrences when tennis was not involved.   
  
Jiroh was wearing his green silk shirt. It moved like liquid under Atobe's fingers, when he had reason to touch Jiroh. Modern dancing wasn't something that called for a lot of hand holding or close contact -- unless you were Mukahi -- but on occasion it was necessary. The shirt was undoubtedly living up to its astronomical price tag, although Atobe was sure it was the way the fabric clung to Jiroh that was drawing admiring glances from all over the ballroom.  
  
"Spin me, Atobe!" shouted Jiroh above the noise. He inserted a small, sweaty paw into Atobe's grip and tugged on it. Atobe relented and lifted Jiroh's hand above his head -- not hard to do, for Atobe had at least five inches on Jiroh. He twirled Jiroh until his curls were flying out in a red-gold halo and he was giggling breathlessly.   
  
Atobe felt perspiration prickle the back of his neck. He was glad he was wearing his white shirt with the silver inserts; it had a tendency to go diaphanous when wet, and thus was the ideal choice for hard partying. Combined with the leather trousers that had taken three maids two hours to mould him into, and the sultry glances from half the females present, Atobe was reasonably certain that he looked devastating.  
  
Jiroh collapsed against him, a stray curl tickling Atobe's neck. "That was fun! Again?"  
  
"I think you need a drink before you lose too much body water." Absent-mindedly, Atobe tucked the curl behind Jiroh's ear. His hand lingered on Jiroh's jaw, where deceptively fine stubble pricked his fingertips.  
  
"Okay," Jiroh began to assent, but his tone turned pleading as a new song came over the loudspeakers. "But I love this song, Atobe-kun. One more dance, _please_?"  
  
Atobe was a little amused by the way Jiroh was practically begging him for permission. "If you must. But remember to get a drink afterwards." He made to leave the dance floor, but something about Jiroh's face made him stop and ask, "What is it, Jiroh?"  
  
"You have to dance _with_ me." The beginnings of a pout appeared on Jiroh's lips. Atobe was torn between exasperation and affection. "It's no fun if you don't."  
  
"All right," sighed Atobe, even though it wasn't exactly an arduous task. "Just one more, though."  
  
"Yes," said Jiroh -- sounding more gleeful than obedient -- and proceeded to cuddle against Atobe.  
  
"That's not how you dance," protested Atobe. He got his arm out from under Jiroh's and used it to push him back a little. Jiroh felt nice, but he'd probably fall asleep standing up if Atobe let him.   
  
"It is a slow song, Atobe-kun," replied Jiroh. The sparkle had gone from his gaze, leaving behind the habitual sleepiness. On someone else, the half-closed eyes would have looked lustful. But Jiroh could rarely be bothered to open his eyes fully.   
  
"Even so." Atobe placed Jiroh's hand on his own waist and took the other in his own. He didn't think proper waltzing would be quite the thing in the circumstances, but this was certainly more dignified than the sleepwalking shuffle for which Jiroh had been aiming.  
  
Jiroh laid his head against Atobe's shoulder, sighing happily. Atobe rolled his eyes. He _knew_ Jiroh was just trying to fall asleep. Yet he couldn't feel angry with him; his motives were so hopelessly obvious. Jiroh's hand slipped from Atobe's shoulder to his bicep, crumpling the cloth between his fingers as if it were a bit of blanket. In this state, he probably thought that's what it was.   
  
Atobe glanced down at Jiroh's other hand, which he held against his chest. Jiroh was practically sprawled against him in spite of all his efforts to prevent it. Jiroh's wrist was so thin, and so very white under the strobe lights. Atobe was overcome with an urge to lick it -- just a little, to see if the protruding bone was as delicate as it looked, or if he could push it back under Jiroh's skin with his tongue.   
  
At the same time, he realised that all the bumping and grinding that the previous dancing had entailed was having a cumulative effect upon him. He was as hard as a rock, and if Jiroh got any closer he'd discover that fact for himself.   
  
Fortunately, the song was coming to an end. Atobe prised Jiroh's hand off his arm. He'd been gently squeezing it -- obviously, in his state of semi-consciousness, mistaking it for a plushie.   
  
Jiroh looked up at him with a smile playing about his lips, and Atobe caught his breath. Jiroh's mouth looked plump and inviting -- which was ridiculous. He wasn't a fruit. Atobe didn't want to eat him. _Delicious_ just wasn't an adjective one used in relation to other people.   
  
Jiroh didn't look remotely tired. Clearly having a nap on Atobe's shoulder had woken him up.   
  
"Drink, now," managed Atobe. Jiroh nodded and led the way, his hand still in Atobe's clasp.  
  
He didn't let go, but then again, neither did Atobe.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
"You and Jiroh certainly looked ... close the other night."   
  
Although Atobe couldn't see him, he could _hear_ the smirk in the tensai's voice. It was enough to make him bristle.  
  
"Don't start, Oshitari-kun," he snapped.  
  
"I'm wounded." There was a rustle as Oshitari rolled around on his bed. "After all this time, can't you call me Yuushi?"  
  
"I can, but I won't." Atobe glanced up from rifling through Oshitari's abysmal DVD collection to meet his frown. "Grammar, Yuushi, grammar. Look into it. Do you own _anything_ that isn't sickening?"  
  
"My sister gave me The Ring a few years ago, it should be in there somewhere." Oshitari propped his chin in his hands. "I take it your display at the party is off-limits to discussion, then? Only you looked _so_ sweet together. Or like you were fucking with all your clothes on, one or the other."  
  
"Your crudeness no longer shocks or disappoints me," announced Atobe, even though a flush was rising up his neck. "But actually, that is why I decided to grant you the honour of a visit. Seeing as you have nothing worth watching, I may as well get to the point."  
  
"Do." Oshitari's eyes flashed with amusement, which quickly turned to shock when Atobe said, "I need you to teach me how to kiss."  
  
"What?" Oshitari's jaw dropped. "Don't you know how to kiss already?"  
  
"Of course." Atobe dismissed this. "But even ore-sama does not become accomplished at everything just like that. Practice is required."  
  
"And you want to practice on me? You're not madly in love with me or anything, are you?"   
  
"Hardly. Gakuto has that amply covered." Ignoring Oshitari's vehement denial, Atobe continued, "It's simple: are you willing to oblige me, or are you not?"  
  
"Well, fine," replied Oshitari. "Anything for a ... friend, I suppose. Besides, it's been so long I think I'd make out with a dog if one offered."  
  
"Ore-sama is offended by your disgusting tendencies," said Atobe. "Please refrain from mentioning them further. Or ever again."  
  
"Done. C'mon, then." Oshitari gestured to his bed. Atobe climbed on to the duvet, wrinkling his nose at the crumbs and stains. Oshitari ate in bed. He claimed it was the single flaw in an otherwise peerless personality. Atobe claimed it was clear evidence of his cavemen roots. They'd come to an amicable agreement not to tussle over the issue again after Atobe broke Oshitari's spare pair of glasses and Oshitari wrinkled Atobe's shirt.  
  
"First things first," said Oshitari, when Atobe was as settled as he could be with the lurking threat of crumbs getting into his clothes. "Hands. If you're the one who's starting the kiss, you need to show it by putting your hand on Jiroh's face or shoulder."  
  
"Who says this is for Jiroh?" objected Atobe.  
  
Oshitari just rolled his eyes. "If you're the one getting kissed, putting your hands on Ji -- on the other person's waist is a good option. That way you can move them up or down, you know?"  
  
"No need to draw me a picture." Atobe put his hand on Oshitari's cheek. Oshitari winced.  
  
"Not so hard! Do it gently."  
  
"That _was_ gentle."  
  
"Oh, boy." Oshitari sighed and spent the next five minutes giving Atobe a tutorial in hand positioning. When he felt Atobe had it under control, he went on with, "Now, for the actual kissing. There are heaps of kinds."   
  
He pecked Atobe on the cheek. "That's what you do with your mother." Atobe didn't do that to his mother for fear of messing up her makeup, but he kept quiet. "You can also get away with using that as a goodbye kiss in public, depending on who it is and where you are."   
  
Oshitari pressed his lips swiftly to Atobe's mouth. The sensation was so brief that Atobe could hardly categorise it, but he knew it left him cold. Not like imagining kissing Jiroh did ... although he rarely allowed himself to do that.  
  
"That's a warm-up kiss. Good for seeing if someone really wants to kiss you or not. If they pull away or slap you or pour their drink on your head afterwards, it's a pretty good sign that they're not interested. However, if they do this --" Oshitari kissed Atobe's mouth again, but this time shifted slightly so that his lips rubbed over Atobe's "-- then you're away on a hack."  
  
Atobe felt a slight shiver go through him as Oshitari kissed him like that again, after telling Atobe to do the same to him. He thought of doing this to Jiroh, and it was like a bolt of lightning pierced him. His breath was coming faster when Oshitari drew back.  
  
"Now, there are several ways to go from there," Oshitari droned on. "I prefer to slowly build up to the main event by lots of soft kisses, but some people go straight for the tongues. Seeing as I'm teaching you and my way _is_ better, we'll do it like that."  
  
"You are extremely infuriating," Atobe informed him, in case there should be any doubt on that point.   
  
"You love it." Oshitari grinned wickedly and kissed Atobe breathless with a series of rapid wet kisses. Just when Atobe was getting used to it, Oshitari licked his lower lip. It fell open in surprise and then Oshitari was _really_ kissing him, his tongue thick and heavy in Atobe's mouth.  
  
He expected Oshitari to end the kiss to explain it step-by-step, but as the seconds passed Atobe realised that wasn't going to happen. Plus, Oshitari's hands -- before harmlessly balled on his lap -- were suddenly on Atobe's waist, pushing up his shirt with the clear intention of continuing until Atobe's chest was entirely bared.  
  
Atobe made an affronted noise into Oshitari's mouth, which was returned with a moan. But when Oshitari dropped a hand to Atobe's thigh and began stroking, Atobe had had enough. With a surge of strength he pushed Oshitari off. The tensai flopped back, panting and rosy-cheeked. Atobe was too angry to speak.  
  
"Well," said Oshitari after a small interval. He didn't sound remotely repentant. "Jiroh is one lucky boy."  
  
"Yuu -- Oshitari, this was supposed to be a lesson, not an excuse for you to grope me," complained Atobe.  
  
"That's unfair. I deserve to get something out of it too." Oshitari stuck out his tongue. "Besides, I warned you I was horny."  
  
"Why did you ever break up with Gakuto? You're insufferable without him," sighed Atobe. He was unprepared for the shadow that crossed Oshitari's face at his words.  
  
"Yeah. I know," he said, his voice even rougher than usual.  
  
Feeling somewhat at a loss, Atobe did the only thing he could think of. He put his hand against Oshitari's face, just as Oshitari had taught him, and kissed him.  
  
When Oshitari slipped his tongue in, it was far slower and gentler than the first time. He coaxed Atobe's tongue out, teasing him so carefully that Atobe couldn't help but respond. He curled his hand into Oshitari's shaggy hair, and let Oshitari suck his tongue and begin to massage the skin of his back.  
  
Which was how Mukahi found them when he opened Oshitari's bedroom door five minutes later. His step on the stairs was so light that neither of them had heard him. They both heard Mukahi's cheery greeting of "Hey, Yuushi, I --" and the strangled way it cut off in the middle, though.  
  
Atobe jumped away from Oshitari, but not as far nor as fast as Oshitari jumped away from him. It was just as well; Mukahi was quick, and if it weren't for Oshitari's tensai reflexes and long legs Mukahi would have bolted out the door before anyone could stop him.  
  
"Let me go, Yuushi!" cried Mukahi. Even Atobe could see that his eyes were wet. "You're hurting me!"  
  
"As soon as I've explained." Oshitari's voice was as firm as the grip with which he pinned Mukahi to the wall.  
  
"You don't need to explain." Mukahi kicked, cracking Oshitari's skin and making him wince. "I have eyes. You and him -- I never thought, but --"  
  
Atobe looked up from where he'd been politely inspecting his nails. "No need to strain yourself," he drawled. "He and I aren't."  
  
"I was giving him lessons," said Oshitari, before Mukahi could recover his voice. "Like you did with Jiroh? And for the same reason too, although try getting him to admit it."  
  
Mukahi went limp. "Atobe is trying to seduce Jiroh?"  
  
Oshitari chuckled. "That's hardly necessary at this stage, is it? No, he wants to make sure his technique is perfect for when he finally gets his act together and jumps him."  
  
"I am still here, you know," Atobe pointed out in acid tones.  
  
Oshitari ignored him. "See? There is a valid explanation." He stepped away from Mukahi. "Did I really hurt you?"  
  
"As if you could," scoffed Mukahi. He tossed back his hair. Oshitari tracked the movement hungrily. "Anyway, I just overreacted. I have no right to --"  
  
Atobe was very tired of the way they were pussyfooting around the issue. He also wanted to get Oshitari back for molesting him.   
  
"You have every right," he said loudly, drowning out Mukahi's bumbling attempt at self-preservation. "He's still in love with you, search me if I know why. Maybe it's the hair. And if you think everyone hasn't noticed the way your gymnast has blue hair and glasses and basically looks like a shorter, female version of Yuushi, then, Gakuto --" Atobe paused for dramatic emphasis "-- you have another think coming."  
  
Feeling very self-satisfied, he swept out.  
  
Now for the hard part: Jiroh.  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe had tried to brush off his attraction to Jiroh as many things: a trick of the light, the effect of drugs his mother had taken while pregnant, a passing infatuation, mistaken identity, a schoolboy crush. It was very tiring, trying to keep up the facade. As soon as he broke down and admitted to himself that yes, he would quite like to pin Jiroh to a bed and remove every article of his clothing until he was naked, writhing and crying out Atobe's name, there was no going back. What Atobe wanted, he needed to have -- which was why he sought Oshitari's help. He doubted Oshitari would approve of Atobe using Jiroh to satisfy his base lusts -- what with Oshitari being a die-hard romantic and all -- but it wasn't like Atobe was _in love_ with Jiroh.   
  
If he was, surely he would have noticed.  
  
He planned an evening of fine wine and seduction of the sort his father had often espoused. It started to go wrong from the very start, when the butler refused to give him the key to the wine cellar. Apparently Otousan had very strict ideas about who should be doing the wining and seducing, and Atobe was not included in their number.   
  
The car that he'd sent over to collect Jiroh arrived far back far earlier than Atobe expected. He was luxuriating in a bath full of pineapple-scented bubbles at the time. His hair was wet and unstyleable when he went down to greet Jiroh. He had no time to do up all the complicated zips and fastenings on his chosen outfit and had to settle for extremely plain Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a red jumper, with no shirt or shoes. It was bad enough that he hadn't been able to find pineapple aftershave -- apparently Hugo Boss didn't carry such a line, which Atobe considered very remiss of them -- without looking so completely unprepared as well.  
  
Atobe had equally had no intention of confessing to Jiroh in the billiards room, of all places. Not when his bedroom was all prepared for this, with brand new black silk sheets, low lighting that Atobe had experimented with for a whole evening to get right, and large bowls of roses to scent the air. But when Jiroh spotted the billiard tables through the door from the main hall he practically exploded with delight. Atobe didn't have the heart to deny him a game.  
  
Billiards was a highly suggestive sport, Atobe decided. All that bending from the waist and intense staring at balls. His feet were cold from the floor tiles and, as he'd instructed the maids to leave him and Jiroh strictly alone, he couldn't call for slippers.   
  
Jiroh straightened up and said, "Are you all right, Atobe-kun? If you're bored I can stop." Concern was etched into his features.  
  
All of Atobe's carefully scripted speeches flew straight out of his head. "Please call me Keigo," he said.   
  
Jiroh stared at him like Atobe had asked him to furnish him with naked pictures of his mother. "Are you sure, At -- Keigo? Is it appropriate?"  
  
"I think so," replied Atobe, fighting down a hysterical giggle. "Um, Jiroh, could you put down that pool cue? I have something to tell you."  
  
"Sure." Jiroh affixed the cue back on its stand and obediently came to stand in front of Atobe. This close, Atobe could see golden five o'clock shadow and a light dusting of pimples under Jiroh's ear. His curls were a little frizzy, like he'd been out in the rain -- which, given the weather, was entirely possible.   
  
"I'm not gay," began Atobe. "And I'm not in love with you or anything. I expect that I will be married by the age of twenty-five, when my father retires and hands over the reigns of the company to me. However, I find that I ..." He swallowed. He'd looked up so many novels and plays in reference, taken notes during so many of Oshitari's films, and yet he could not remember one word. "I like you. As more than a friend, as ..."  
  
He was interrupted by a husky chuckle from Jiroh. When he looked down, Jiroh was smirking. Atobe had before never seen an expression like that on Jiroh's face, and it knocked him for six.  
  
"Well, _finally_." Jiroh gave an exaggerated sigh and blew his hair out of his eyes. "I didn't know what I was going to have to resort to next to get the message through your thick skull. I thought a strip-tease would have been a bit obvious, but with you I never can tell."  
  
"Strip-tease?" Atobe's brain got stuck on the image that conjured.   
  
Jiroh planted a small hand on the middle of Atobe's chest and tugged him down. Before Atobe could quite process it, Jiroh's mouth had closed over his.   
  
It was nothing like kissing Oshitari or the drunken girl. For one thing, Atobe could feel the heat from Jiroh's lips flooding his entire body. Jiroh's hands snaked around his waist and held him close as Jiroh rose on tiptoe and deepened the kiss.   
  
His lips clung to Atobe's for a second longer before Jiroh drew back. He leaned away from Atobe so that he could look up into his face.   
  
"Wow," croaked Atobe. He'd never felt less self-possessed in his life.   
  
"Mmm," returned Jiroh, rolling his hips against Atobe's. Atobe gasped to feel Jiroh hard against his thigh. "That was definitely worth waiting for."  
  
Atobe lifted one trembling hand to cup Jiroh's face. Jiroh contentedly rubbed his cheek against it. "You smell of pineapples, Keigo."  
  
"I --" Atobe felt himself begin to blush as he saw that Jiroh was smirking again.  
  
"So you even picked up on that hint. You do denial as perfectly as everything else." Jiroh's hands slipped down, his fingers caressing the curve of Atobe's ass in a way that managed to be both tender and teasing.   
  
Atobe gasped again and tensed. Jiroh only squeezed harder. "Let's get two things perfectly clear, though, Keigo. One: you are gay -- you're as gay as the day is long." He rocked against Atobe, and his hands held Atobe tight as his erection pressed into Jiroh's soft belly. This effectively stifled the refutation that Atobe was on the point of making. "Two: you're probably as much in love with me as I am with you."   
  
He stretched up then and kissed Atobe again, his tongue stroking Atobe's lips until they opened in a sigh and it curled inside. Atobe felt his knees begin to weaken. Jiroh's skilful tongue licked and sucked, and Jiroh's hands slid into the back of Atobe's jeans, and their shirts rode up, creating heady skin-on-skin friction.   
  
"Jiroh ..." moaned Atobe. His jaw was aching, his legs were trembling, his cock was throbbing and he was afraid he was going to come in his jeans. Literally in his jeans -- he hadn't had time to don boxers either.  
  
"Yes?" Jiroh laid a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Atobe's jaw. "D'you want to go to your bedroom? I want you naked. Not that I mind if you're naked _here_ , though." He gently kneaded the bulge in Atobe's jeans. "And I can't wait to see this up close. All those peeks when I was pretending to be asleep just didn't cut it."  
  
That cut through the fog of Atobe's arousal. "Pretending? How long have you been ..."  
  
Fingers found his nipple through his shirt and pinched. Atobe choked, and Jiroh soothed it with a softer caress. "Years, I guess," he said thoughtfully. "At first I thought all the compliments would give you a hint, but you get too many of them already. Plus, you're terribly vain." He silenced Atobe with a swift kiss on the mouth. "I tried sleeping on your lap, but even with my face in your crotch you didn't get it. Arousing your jealousy, reverse psychology, naked portraits, suggestive dancing, accidentally smashing my head in ... good thing I love you, really. I was beginning to despair of the whole effort."  
  
Atobe stared into Jiroh's eyes, which were brimming with mischief and unfettered desire. "You were seducing _me_?" he said, his tone faintly accusatory.  
  
"Yeah," said Jiroh. "Did it work?"  
  
Atobe regained a little of his poise. "Kiss me again," he said haughtily, "and I'll tell you."  
  
"Deal." Jiroh smiled and dropped to his knees before Atobe. He tore down the zipper of Atobe's jeans and crumpled the stiff material down to his knees. "You go commando? Another fantasy fulfilled ..."  
  
"Jiroh?" Atobe couldn't keep a quaver out of his voice as Jiroh eyed his stiff cock with a predatory gleam. "What about that kiss?"  
  
"Hey," laughed Jiroh, "you didn't say where."  
  
  
__  
  
  
  
Atobe was still something of a prude.  
  
He refused to answer Oshitari's questions about how he and Jiroh ever got anywhere when one half of the equation was almost always asleep. Atobe wouldn't even divulge how adorable he thought Jiroh was with flushed cheeks and long eyelashes fluttering sleepily, not to mention how amazing that looked when Jiroh was poised to give him a blowjob.   
  
Mukahi got no joy when he wanted to know who was bigger; Atobe thought it was a terribly crude question. Jiroh was three millimetres longer, but Atobe was thicker. Atobe had noticed this when they lay side by side and slowly rubbed against each other, their breathing harsh and their skin beaded with sweat.  
  
He didn't particularly enjoy walking in on Ohtori with his hand down Shishido's pants for the forty millionth time. But he quite liked it when Jiroh cornered him in the locker room, yanked down his shorts and brought him off in a few hard jerks, whispering all sorts of dirty things in Atobe's ear while he squeezed and tugged.   
  
Jiroh would never earn Atobe's approval for the way he leaped about on court, showing off his lovely toned belly to all and sundry. At the same time Atobe loved to touch it himself, when he had Jiroh in his bed and hard from Atobe merely rubbing his skin in slow circles. He could keep Jiroh on the edge until he was wailing, arching helplessly to bring his cock into contact with Atobe's teasing fingers.  
  
All in all, however, Atobe felt that he was now far more prepared for another party at Ohtori's house. He even felt confident enough to volunteer for a Truth ...  
  
... until Oshtiari leaned forward, one arm around Mukahi's shoulder and a thoroughly wicked expression on his face, and said: "So, _Atobe_. Which one of you tops?"  
  



End file.
